Refuge from the Damned
by Arnold Reagen
Summary: As the Green Flu sweeps the country, turning people into rage filled monsters, two naval ships attempt to regroup with the surviving armed forces located somewhere in the Florida Keys.  They know it to be a final, safe haven.  Or so they believe...
1. Chapter 1

Refuge from the Damned

As the sun rises on the endless horizon, the U.S.S. Eisenhower continues its voyage. The massive aircraft carrier is accompanied by its escort ship, the U.S.S. Carthage, a medium class Cruiser. They had set out from Newport, Virginia only a few days before the first case of the Green Flu was reported in Virginia Beach. Since then, the pair of ships had been patrolling aimlessly, waiting for orders that would never come. The only orders that had been encrypted on the ship's radio were coordinates for a rendezvous point somewhere in the Florida Keys. So without further delay, the Eisenhower and Carthage steadily sailed south, being forced to use older maritime instruments, as most, if not all satellite information was knocked out.

Petty Officer Alvin York, a 25 year old Naval Academy graduate, observed with growing concern the tension growing amongst the crew. It was unspoken, but Alvin could feel it in the nervous looks and muffled whispers coming from the younger sailors. None of them could have possibly known what was occurring back in the United States, or even if the United States still existed.

In actuality, their fears were justified: from the first outbreak in Fairfield, Pennsylvania, the Green Flu devastated the continental United States, infecting tens of millions, and forcing what few remnants of the military to retreat to safe zones that they were assured were secure, but as the plague evolved and the number of surviving, non-infected humans dwindled, the remaining units pulled out of the mainland, establishing protected zones in remote or isolated locations, a few including a few islands in the Florida Keys, Anchorage, Alaska, and the Baja Peninsula. For the time being, these bases were secure from infected invasion, but as supplies dwindled, many commanders faced a choice: stand back and watch as their men slowly succumbed to disease and starvation, or make incursions into infected territory to gather supplies.

Others had more radical ideas…

On an early June morning, the pair of ships, having been at sea for almost 6 months spotted land on the horizon. The men became ecstatic, until they saw their welcome home party…

Hundreds of derelict, rotting boats, from small dingys to a massive ocean liner, dotted the once blue waters. And that is when the stench hit them. Thousands of infected had desperately tried to escape the mainland, only succumbing to the infection while at sea. After they had killed their non-infected or immune shipmates, the infected slowly starved over periods of weeks or months, eventually becoming the bloated and rotting corpses the sailors saw while reentering coastal waters. Some of the infected were even still alive, growling and trying desperately to move their weak, frail bodies in an effort to attack their newfound prey.

On one derelict ship, sailors on the Carthage spotted the outline of a woman. As the Carthage neared the wrecked fishing vessel, they observed the mysterious figure crying, her malnourished frame shaking with each agonizing sob or moan. One of the greener sailors yelled out to her, asking if she was alright. She turned around to the source of the voice, and all the sailors jumped at the sight of her: her blood-red eyes burned into them as she let out bone chilling wail. As she stood up, the sailors saw her massive claws and disheveled form, and two of them became sick on the spot. She lunged at the massive ship, sinking like a rock into the unforgiving surf. The men were clearly shaken by this; around five had to be interned in the ship's hospital bay.

As the two ships neared shore, something became more and more apparent about many of the ships still in these waters: most, if not all had what appeared to be bullet holes gracing their sides, some of the larger ones had massive holes in their sides. Up in the command tower, this development made Admiral Christian Jacobson, a veteran of Vietnam and both Gulf Wars, very ill at ease. As he was about to tell over the intercom to be on the lookout, the radio operator, who had had no contact in the last few months, rushed into the command room and said, exasperated, "Sir, you better come quick. We have radio contact with the rest of the fleet."

Jacobson ran over to the radio in the next room. "Hello, this is Admiral Christian Jacobson, commander of both the U.S.S. Eisenhower and the U.S.S. Carthage. Who am I speaking to?" The reply heard over the radio shocked him. "This is Rear Admiral David Whiteman, commander of the U.S. 7th Fleet. We are now stationed around 10 clicks from your established position." A smile crept over Jacobson's face, as he said, "We'll be there at 0800. Over and out." He told the crew over the intercom about what he just heard, resulting in a resounding cheer being let out from crews on both ships. "Well," he said to himself, "I think we are through the worst of it."

The old man stared out the window of his office, observing with a half smile the pair of approaching ships. "Every sword needs a tip, for without it, it would just be a club," he thought to himself. A flicker danced in his eyes. "Gentlemen, I believe you will be more than perfect for the job."


	2. Chapter 2

The street was quiet, all except for the breeze that ruffled what few Palmetto trees were still standing. Ashes danced in the noon sky, obscuring the sun and creating an extended night. Many of the old Victorian homes had collapsed in on themselves, revealing forms of the ones who had perished inside of them. Inside one of these said houses, stood a figure covered in the dirty white ash which blanketed the rest of the Holy City. Behind the gasmask that covered his face, a thin layer of perspiration began to build up, fogging his vision ever so slightly.

Across the street stood what was once an open air market, its stalls ransacked and falling apart. A slight movement caught his eye and that's when he noticed it: An antler poking up from a stall marked "Cajun Cooking". The deer, its frame showing signs of malnourishment, had stopped to rummage through some cans, and the man saw the perfect moment was nigh; He lifted his rifle, covered in gray rags to blend in, slowly, as to not startle and have the deer bolt on him.

The deer, to the man's dismay, did notice the movement, and stood stark still, staring with its big black eyes at the source of the slight commotion. The man lined up his shot, putting his finger on the trigger. Suddenly, the deer was torn from were it was standing, a massive pink tongue wrapping around its torso, pulling it towards one of the dilapidated houses a block over. The man sighed; today he did not have the strength and ammunition to deal with even just one infected. His family would have to go hungry for another night. A tear came to his eye when he envisioned his frail daughter, already twelve pounds underweight.

He was about to cautiously retreat down the alleyway behind the house, but all of a sudden he was stopped dead in his tracks: he could hear the faint sound of movement on the floor above him. Suddenly, the ceiling collapsed and the man felt the form of a man fall onto him. The man reacted just in time and rolled the infected off, sending it crashing into the bookshelf across the room. The infected tried to pick itself up, its hoodie caught on one of the shelves. The man rushed over, crushing the thing's skull with one swift movement from the stock of the rifle. But the damage was done: he could hear the calls of a horde who had heard the scuffle coming from the house. He dashed into the alleyway behind the house, jumping over the refuse and trash littering the alley. He could hear them closing in, their growls and shrieks getting closer by the second. As he reached the street, more infected joined the chase, running after the man down the ash covered street. As he ran, the man saw a semi crashed into a signpost, blocking off the road. He cursed to himself, and placing both hands on the hood of the vehicle, vaulted over in one solid leap.

But to his horror, he saw the red-orange "Open manhole" signs to late, and instead of hitting the pavement, he fell into the gaping mouth of the road. He let out one final scream as he collided with the cold, clammy ground. His head was spinning, until after a few minutes, gave into the darkness and blacked out…


End file.
